


Identity: Recurred or Recreated

by queenofthewips (lilithduvare)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, CockyBoys RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Friends to Lovers, Identity Appropriation, M/M, Masturbation, Metal arm porn, Mistaken Identity, Porn RPF - Freeform, Porn Watching, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovering!Bucky, Seduction, but not really, erectile problems, memory problems
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-23 02:43:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8310835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilithduvare/pseuds/queenofthewips
Summary: His corner table in a quiet little coffee shop that's part of an equally quiet bookstore is the perfect hiding place for Bucky, away from the angry buzz of a city he barely remembers being his home and the worried/suspicious glances of a team of heroes that never could replace the faint memories of camaraderie of sepia toned men laughing and fighting together. It’s the perfect place to learn how to function as a member of a society he doesn’t belong in, without anyone being the wiser or caring about his existence. At least it is until he gets mistaken for someone called Tayte Hanson and he has to face parts of himself he's been hiding from since the moment he regained the slightest bit of his old self.





	1. Acquisition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jinlinli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinlinli/gifts), [comedicdrama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/comedicdrama/gifts).



> Okay let's start with the important bits. You can blame the amazing [jinlinli](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jinlinli) and the equally wonderful [comedicdrama](http://archiveofourown.org/users/comedicdrama) for the existence of this story. Fair warning it's not finished yet, so it will update weekly to allow me to finish the last five chapters.
> 
> There is also a tumblr post (which I can't find because I suck) that I've only seen after I was way too deep in this fic and it's really nothing like my story, but it's interesting how people's minds can work in similar ways without knowing each other.
> 
> I don't write RPF. I'm not going to say I haven't read some, but I don't write it, yet here I am with a fic that involves a real person. Well, the good news is that Tayte is only mentioned in the story and will only appear in one of his vids where he isn't really himself because he's acting even if that acting involves having sex with people. So if RPF isn't your thing? Well this isn't really RPF, yet in a way it is. I'll add more tags as we go along to make this story as safe as possible for the readers.
> 
> That said, I hope you'll enjoy it and feel free to join me on [Tumblr](http://queenofthewips.tumblr.com) if you want to.

The bookstore has a small coffee corner with plush chairs and little tables Bucky could probably break with a careless flick of his hand. But they are set up by the large picture windows with one chair pushed into the little nook where the fake brick wall meets the edge of the window. It’s the perfect hiding place for Bucky, away from the angry buzz of a city he barely remembers being his home and the worried/suspicious glances of a team of heroes that never could replace the faint memories of camaraderie of sepia toned men laughing and fighting together. It’s the perfect place to learn how to function as a member of a society he doesn’t belong in, without anyone being the wiser or caring about his existence. Or the threat he poses for that matter.

He likes to try new flavors of coffee but hates the cloying taste of too much sugar and artificial coloring. Still, he finds one he likes well enough every once in awhile to make the artistically tattooed boy behind the counter smile wide. The boy’s thin shoulders remind him of a different one from a long time ago, even if his dark skin and clever eyes make him think of a man he might have known or might have not. The boy always gives him his second coffee free of charge and leaves books on his table in the corner to save him a place.

The books are entertaining if somewhat confusing, although Bucky draws the line at depriving pornography and domestic abuse. He drops the once grayscale colored book torn to pieces and beyond salvation just like its characters onto the counter, in front of the wide-eyed boy with a sneer.

“T-that’s going to be fifteen dollars,” the boy says, the way he stumbles over his first word belying his grin.

“You can pay it yourself, kid.” Bucky turns away before the boy could see the way his lips curl up into a shadow of a smile.

The kid is the first friend he makes on his own besides a distorted ghost he cannot and would never let go. The next time, he escapes the tower of oppressive friendliness, there is a thick red book with gold letters proclaiming War and Peace, and Bucky can’t hold back the huff of almost laughter that bubbles up in his throat. The boy is grinning from ear to ear when he hands over something cinnamon and chocolate smelling in a large, thick glass cup, and raises his eyebrows as if challenging Bucky.

The lack of fear or overbearing protectiveness is a surprisingly comforting change.

“I’m Miles,” the boy says, still smiling.

Bucky smirks, but doesn’t reply. Instead, he takes a sip of his drink only to grimace at the sticky sweetness covering his tongue. He glares at the kid, Miles, and puts the cup down with enough force to slosh the disgusting swill, the angry tides washing over the rim.

“A new one next time?”

Cheeky little shit.

It takes him nearly reaching the Tower to remember a smile just as wide, but one that meant the world to him once. And it takes walking into his self-chosen glass and electronics laden prison cell, and see the replica of that earth stopping stretch of lips to remember who it belonged to.

“Good day?” Steve asks, blue eyes eager and shadowed in a way the pair in his mind never was, but the smile… the smile has not changed at all.

“Children these days don’t respect their elders,” Bucky says, practicing how to make his smile believable. It earns him a fond laugh, softer, more reserved than the sound echoing in his head.

“You’re not even thirty, Buck,” comes the reply, but Bucky is distracted by the pink mouth that keeps forming elusive words. He’s mesmerized by the curl and pull of flesh, barely noticing the way his legs propel him forward until Steve his craning his neck up, his sketch pad forgotten on the drawing table that appeared one day and wouldn’t disappear no matter how many times Steve tried to tell Stark he didn’t need it.

It would be so easy to lean down and seek a taste, but there is nothing to match in his scattered memories, and the opportunity slips away before he could make up his mind. Because Steve is standing now, smile dimmer and soured by the hateful worry that makes Bucky’s gut churn. And he is taller than he should be, broader, and too different––

“I thought you were smaller.” It’s the wrong thing to say, he knows it is by the way even the shadow of that old smile wobbles and washes away. He knows it is by the way blue eyes are ridden with a heartstopping pain just as a long fingered hand hesitantly clasps around the back of Bucky’s neck and pulls him forward to rest against Steve’s forehead.

“Sorry,” Steve rasps. “Sorry, I know you don’t like being touched.”

“It’s fine.” It isn’t, but Steve wouldn’t understand that his problem stems from the despicable sadness that clings to Steve’s skin like a thick, everlasting layer of dirt and not from his own past. Or maybe he would and blame himself even more than he already does.

Bucky closes his eyes and inhales deeply, looking for that pinch of charcoal and musk that has always been an ingrained part of Steve. It’s there, but barely, the chemicals of modern day cleaning products almost managing to shatter the familiarity Bucky clings to with a desperation he thought he left behind in blood and antiseptic drenched rooms full of lethal and static and fear and emptiness.

They spend the rest of the day in front of the TV, watching sports neither of them follow anymore, curled around each other without acknowledging the way their limbs intertwine and press as close as physically possible.

~o~o~o~o~

Two days later Bucky is back in his corner, reading Pride and Prejudice while he sips on a cup of scorching hot black coffee laced with hazelnuts. He thinks Steve could make amazing illustrations for the story and contemplates bringing it up when he gets back to the tower. Maybe Steve would like it, too. Maybe Elizabeth would remind him of Agent Carter. It’s the first time he buys a book much to Miles’ surprise.

“There’s also a version with zombies if you’re interested,” the girl with a shiny little name tag proclaiming her “America” behind the register offers boldly as she bags his book. Bucky frowns at her, wondering if she’s messing with him, but her expression is open and her large, brown eyes are only reflecting mild amusement and expectation.

“I don’t think I’m ready for that,” Bucky admits, dropping the change in a small tip jar out of habit. Her entire face lights up.

“Take your time…” And it sounds like she wants to continue, which instantly sends Bucky’s nerves into overdrive, assessing the threat she could be. He notes the smooth cords of muscles under tight skin, peeking out from under the short sleeves of her light blue shirt, and the strong line of her shoulders that carry invisible power. She could be a Hydra plant, here to watch Bucky and strike when he least expects it.

The thought leaves him reaching for a gun he knows isn’t strapped onto his thigh. America slants a glance in Miles’ direction who is also watching them with too much interested, and Bucky’s stomach drops. If these kids are both Hydra––

“Mr. Hanson.”

Bucky’s mind screeches to a halt at the almost whispered name. He glances behind his back, expecting another customer behind him, but there are only two people are in the store besides him and the two maybe? Hydra agents, both of them too busy pretending? to look at nicely stacked books. He turns back to America with a frown, noticing the near invisible spots of red coloring her cheeks.

“I…” Her eyes are wide and she’s biting down on her lower lip in worry, as if afraid she offended Bucky somehow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to make this awkward for you… but I’m kind of a huge fan?”

“Okay?” It occurs to Bucky that something is wrong, but going along with America’s nonsense still sounds better than having to kill or at the very least incapacitate two kids barely out of high school.

“And I know you come here to relax, so I don’t want to bother you, but…” She looks down at the bag still clenched between her fingers, only to stiffen up when a long arm is thrown over her shoulder out of nowhere, startling both her and Bucky.

Bucky’s entire body tenses up, hands once again reaching for a gun that’s been taken away months ago. His nerves are vibrating under his skin and his heart is racing, because it should be impossible. No one has been able to sneak up on him no matter the state of his mind, not since––  

He doesn’t remember.

He almost wishes the glare he shoots Miles was a bullet imbedding into the annoying brat’s forehead, because Miles has no idea how close both him and America came to becoming the next names on the long list of the Winter Soldier’s kills. It doesn’t help that Bucky can see every second of their short lived fight and the way life would seep out of their eyes with crystalline precision.

It’s interesting and equal parts terrifying how ignorant and naive civilians are. Fighting to clear his vision of blood and cooling skin under his fingertips, Bucky forces himself to relax and arrange his expression into something that feels less like a mask of marble grinding his skin into smooth nonchalance. Fortunately, neither America nor Miles is looking at him, too busy arguing in looks and elbow jabs.

Breaking their necks would only take twenty seconds, and the idea alone is frightening enough to make Bucky take a step back, hands tightly tucked into his sides. And then he’s on the street, bumped into by careless pedestrians who only see an empty shell blocking their path, never realizing how close they come to death every time unfamiliar limbs touch Bucky’s body in some way.

He doesn’t remember getting back to the Tower. One minute, he’s standing hunched on a busy street in front of the bookstore that has become his safe haven in the past few months, the next he is enveloped in Steve’s warmth, reveling in the quiet strength and the undertones of charcoal and musk. He burrows deeper in arms that could hold up the world without breaking even when they were nothing but twigs of bones and pale skin. If his lips brush over  slightly sandpapery skin under a regale jaw, neither of them mentions it the next morning.

~o~o~o~o~

He doesn’t go back to the store for five days.

On day six, he’s standing in front of Miles who looks sheepish and so relieved that Bucky almost regrets running out on him. His shame over his weakness only worsens when Miles hands him a tall cup of coffee that smells strongly of spices, mumbling, “It’s on me. For being a dick.”

Bucky nods and takes the cup to his table where his bagged copy of Pride and Prejudice is waiting for him, lying on top of a thin volume with a portrait of a young man with his face half distorted on the cover. The glossy paper under his fingertips is in deep contrast with the melting skin depicted on it, and Bucky knows he is going to buy this book as well before he even opens it. Maybe Steve would paint a portrait of him too, capturing the rotten core hidden beneath never aging human flesh.

He gets lost in rich coffee and the fickleness of rich, hedonistic people from another time, but not enough to miss the quiet tap of sneakers approaching. America’s smile is shy when she offers another cup of coffee, this time with a slice of apple pie. He raises his eyebrows at her, not mentioning that apple pies are really Steve’s things and not his. She pushes the plate closer to him with a shrug.

“I kind of thought you can’t go wrong with apple pie.”

“True.” Bucky picks up the fork and cuts of a small piece, chewing on the mushy apple filling as little as possible before swallowing the bite down. America is still standing by the table, watching him with badly hidden interest. “Would you like to sit?”

She cringes at the offer, her lips pulling into a small frown before she nods, not meeting his eyes. Once upon a time he was charming enough to dissolve the tension with a smile, but nowadays the best he can offer is a grimace that can never match the past. So he keeps chewing dutifully while wishing that America had chosen something less… cinnamony and appley. He really never understood how Steve was able to put away two and sometimes three huge slices of apple pie even when his body was like a frail, dry straw.

“I should apologize, too,” he says after long minutes of awkward silence. America peeks up at him through the tight rings of her curl, blinking in confusion. “For causing problems.”

“Oh no! It was our fault… well, mostly mine,” America replies hastily, her locks flying everywhere when she shakes her head to emphasize her point. “I shouldn’t have tried to…”

“Call out my name?” Bucky prompts, remembering the unfamiliar designation and the hesitancy surrounding it that started the entire problem.

“Yeah. I mean, you obviously come here to be away from… stuff,” she finishes, fumbling for an appropriate word and missing it by a mile. Yet it’s this clumsiness that slowly but surely starts easing the tension pulling Bucky’s muscles tight. “And I don’t want to be that fan, you know.”

Bucky doesn’t know, but he keeps the truth to himself. Lying by omission is always a better choice when it comes to deceiving others than fabricating elaborate stories. Blanks can be filled if necessary, but extra information only gets tangled and forgotten with time.

“Are you that fan?” he asks, hoping his voice is light enough for her not to get offended.

“No!” she protests, huffing a little laugh when she notices the mismatched tilt of Bucky’s lips. “Okay, yeah, I’m not proving that very well, I know. But I blame you for being this––” She waves his hand in a wide gesture over his body as if that should be explanation enough. “Just ugh…”

“Thank you?” Bucky isn’t sure if he was insulted or complimented, but he gets the sense that the somewhat negative words and gestures are hiding appreciation. Reverse complimenting if such thing exists.

Then again, women were always beyond his understanding, even when he pretended to know everything about them. America’s face is a shade darker than before and she is gnawing on her lower lip, a nervous habit she probably doesn’t even notice but easily tells the Soldier’s trained eyes that she is once again worried about offending him.

The overly careful treatment is familiar in a way that nearly makes him snap, but still new enough to quell his tongue before he says something unnecessarily hurtful. It leaves them at an impasse, where neither of them is able to figure out how to move the conversation forward.

Bucky still doesn’t know who is the person America is mistaking him for, but from her jerky, uncomfortable mannerisms he can guess that whoever Hanson is, he must be someone well-known. At least to a degree. A too recent memory of Stark posing with a bunch of people in front of the Tower swims to the surface of Bucky’s mind, and the word ‘fan’ suddenly bears a much clearer meaning. Camera flashes and pens flying over scraps of paper and glossy photographs join the the first memory, making him blink as if it is him who has to withstand the relentless attacks.

America is not really like those faceless people swarming around Stark, clamoring for attention. She’s obviously just as nervous as them, but at least she’s not screaming or trying to touch him. It still makes Bucky wonder if he should offer the opportunity to take a picture with her, like all those buzzing reporters used to snap their flashes at Steve whenever they were allowed onto the base grounds. If she’s really a fan of Hanson, she would appreciate the chance and maybe it would finally dissolve the uncomfortable atmosphere sitting between them.

“Do you want a picture?” His words are halting, America’s face however, is immediately lit up and her dark eyes sparkle to life as she whips out her slim phone.

“You mean a selfie?” she asks, as if to make sure she’s not just dreaming.

“Sure,” Bucky agrees, because what else is there to say? That he has only vague recollection of what a selfie is? Or that he really hopes she doesn’t expect him to actually handle the photo taking part? Of course not.

Fortunately, America is too excited to notice his hesitation. Her expression so open and elated that Bucky cannot help but stare. He put that look there. He continues to watch her, memorizing the brightness of her full smile and the light of happiness reflecting in her eyes, while America fiddles with the phone. The star spangled, blue, red and white case reminds Bucky of Steve’s shield and the old uniform that should have been displayed in the Smithsonian but instead was torn by cruel bullet wounds and stubborn bloodstains.

That memory is still a near unbearable one, the knowledge that he was able to bring harm to the only person in the world whose importance survived seventy years of infrequent trips under the ice and the absolute blankness brought on by the smell of singed hair and frayed nerves. It doesn’t matter how many times Steve tries to assure him that it wasn’t his fault, that he wasn’t himself, the fact remains: Bucky almost killed him.

It would be easy to spiral into another bout of self-hatred, but before Bucky can slip further into his darkening, blood soaked thoughts, America is getting out of the chair she pulled over from another table and Bucky’s attention cuts sharply back into the present, his focus honing in on America’s deceptively strong form.

The whole thing only takes a few seconds. There is no flash and America doesn’t try to touch him beyond the invasion of his personal space to the point where only a hairbreadth of distance separates their faces from each other. He is expected to smile, but the twist of his lips is more threatening than friendly, so Bucky just looks up into the screen of the phone reflecting their faces and does his best to look innocent.

He catches a glimpse of his face before America pulls the phone back, surprised how young he looks compared to the world-weariness that has been sitting on his chest like an overgrown, lazy cat since he pulled Steve out of the Potomac, barely alive. America seems happy with the picture, her shoulders loose and the tendons in his neck relaxed, as she taps away on the screen, doing who knows what.

Leaving her to it, Bucky turns back to his book and lifts his cup to his lips, grimacing at the lukewarm coffee sloshing in his mouth. He tries to get immersed in the story, but America’s presence is throwing him off-kilter especially when she continues to hover over him after she has put her phone away. It’s not her fault of course, yet Bucky is unable to simply sit there with his brain assessing the threat level he is subjected to on loop.

He closes the book after a few more moments of inattention and looks up at America, who has her hands pushed deep into the pockets of her jeans and isn’t even looking at him anymore. No, her gaze is trained on Miles who is making wild gestures, only to freeze in his obscene, but vaguely amusing rendition of sucking someone off with his mouth open and his tongue pushing against the soft flesh of his inner cheek. He instantly drops the hand he was holding in front of his mouth, then raises it again in a little wave.

The snort that leaves Bucky’s throat surprises him as much as the stretch of his cheeks does when he catches America jumping out of her skin as if she has forgotten that he is still there. Which makes the pull in his skin become strong enough to twinge with the pain of unused muscles being strained. She looks down at him, and groans, her eyes pleading. For what, Bucky doesn’t know but it feels good to be able to smile again even if it’s a pain laced happiness.

“Ugh… I’m so sorry, Mr. Hanson…” America mutters. “Miles is a dick. I mean an idiot, yeah. But he doesn’t mean––”

“Miles is a little shit,” Bucky cuts in, taking pity on the stammering girl whose face cannot seem to decide whether to contort in fury or slacken in relief. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll just have to make it up to me with more free coffee.” He realizes that probably this was the most he said all at once since he started coming to the store just as he stands up and gathers his book in one hand and the new one in the other.

“What?!” Miles squeaks, nearly pushing the sugar holder bowl off the counter with his flailing. “But––”

“Shut up, Miles. You were a dick, you deserve it,” America snipes back with a scowl. “Be happy Ms. Parker didn’t see you insult one of our regular customers,” she adds as she ducks behind the counter to put the empty plate into the sink.

“Is that a threat?” Miles’s arms fold in front of his chest defensively even though Bucky is sure he was aiming for threatening.

“It will be if you don’t shut your hole and do your job like you should.”

“The place is dead empty, ‘Rica. So get off my back.”

“You can be dead too.”

They argue like children, like siblings, really, and their snipping brings back hazed memories of futile arguments with Steve, before. The blood in these images is younger and smells like innocence and seems like a lighter shade of red that isn’t soured by disillusion.

“I don’t know,” he hears himself speak up with his mind still mostly buried in simpler times, “that looked like a brave way to say he is looking forward to some sucking.”

“Wha––? No! I mean, no, I’m not saying that like I’m against sucking…” Miles babbles, realizing too late what he is saying. “Okay that came out wrong. But you know what I mean, right? Come on, man!”

But Bucky has already turned away, directing his hiding smirk. He inclines his head towards the register in the bookstore part of the building. “Ring me up?” he asks glancing back at America.

“Of course,” she says with a pleased grin.

“You’re both assholes!” Miles calls after them, causing Bucky’s smirk to widen and America to laugh out loud.

“I’m really sorry for the other day,” she adds as Bucky is about to leave.

“It’s fine. I was just a bit shocked,” Bucky replies with a shrug that fees more awkward than he intended.

“Still, just sorry.”

“Yeah, she’s totally sorry,” Miles pipes in. Bucky has noticed him sneak up on America only to drape himself over her shoulders and roll his eyes at her words. It earns him a sharp elbow in his side that leaves him doubled over.

“Ignore him,” America says, cheeks dark as she drops her gaze to her hands. “Um… Is it—” she stops, forehead wrinkling. “Is it okay if I call you Tayte?” she blurts out after a few seconds of silence.

Miles’ head snaps up and then stares at Bucky for some reason, but Bucky’s attention is on the clearly embarrassed girl in front of him. “Of course,” seems to be the only acceptable answer in this situation, even though he can vaguely recall strangers snapping pictures with Stark calling him Mr Stark instead of Tony. But from what Bucky gathered about the younger generation of the modern world, they don’t use formality with each other. And no matter his occasional complaints about his age, Steve is right. Bucky isn’t even thirty yet, and maybe he could give a try to acting like it.

America’s face lights up and her smile nearly blinds Bucky with its brilliance. Miles is grinning too, but Bucky can’t help but think there is a slight edge to it. And any other time he would allow his paranoia to run away from him until he sees enemy in the nearest lamp post, but this moment feels too much like actual progress to let anything ruin it. Even the weird little buzzing sounds echoing in his ears can be easily ignored in favor of the giddiness bubbling in his stomach.

He nods at both teens as a farewell and they say goodbye with cheerful grins easily outshining Bucky’s more reserved tilt of lips. Yet his smile stays in place even as he walks back to the Tower, content that things might just be fine.

 

 


	2. Declaration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is shorter than the first one but I hope you guys will like it. Thank you for all great responses! You are amazing!

Later that night, he is lying on his side, watching intently as Steve traces his mouth with his index finger, chasing the smile that is still hiding in the lines framing his lips. Bucky imagines allowing his lower lip to drop open when the smooth pad drags over it –– the way his pulse quickens both exhilarates and frightens him and, seeking the thrill, he can’t help but lean closer.

Steve’s breath catches, his finger freezing a little slide away from slipping into Bucky’s now open mouth, and his face moves closer as if drawn in by the gravity of the tension sizzling between them. Their noses bump gently, and the world around Bucky narrows to the sensation of Steve’s warm breath fanning over his lips, anticipating his next move.

But Steve doesn’t try to press further, doesn’t close the distance between them. They’re at an impasse, both of them ridden with uncertainty strong enough to halt their bodies from taking the final step and just bear the consequences. Steve is obviously being considerate offering him the agency that should have never been ripped away from him, but Bucky craves the guidance and hates that Steve just isn’t taking the directive in their relationship anymore.

“I’m not going to break,” Bucky whispers, harsher than intended, causing Steve’s eyes to widen for a moment before they slip close.

“Then show me,” Steve whispers back, still not moving closer. It should be cliched and sappy, but the desperation lacing Steve’s tone makes the world frighteningly real.

It’s a challenge, one Bucky could never back down from, despite it also being a very blatant attempt at manipulation. He considers backing away, just to show Steve that if he wants something, he will have to take it himself, but childish dramatics have no place in this moment. So, instead of clinging to a dynamic they have been scrambling to reenact for the past months, he leans forward and kisses his best friend for the first time in their many lives.

It’s awkward and uncomfortable and so far from perfect. Still, Bucky cannot help but love every little brush and nip they exchange, alight by the electricity sparking between them the moment their tongues meet. The moan that escapes Steve’s throat is raspy and so incredibly fascinating that Bucky has to pull back for a second to just look.

He doesn’t really remember ever doing this with anyone, despite knowing that he used to be popular with women before the War, before the Fall, before the Soldier. It’s both a blessing and a curse, logically knowing he should be doing much better at showing Steve how much he wants and needs him, yet fumbling like a novice that has never felt another person’s touch before. He wants this moment to be perfect in execution, to give Steve the memory of a first kiss he deserves, but at the same time he feels giddy to start on a clean slate.

He stares at Steve, enraptured by the shine of kiss darkened lips and the glitter of hooded eyes in the dim light Jarvis always keeps on for them in the bedroom. Moving his metal thumb over the slick skin feels natural as if he’s done it thousands of times before despite knowing it’s all in his head. He wishes his metal hand could feel more than pressure as it spans out over the side Steve’s face, fingertips brushing feather light against the side of a strong neck. Steve trembles and tries to arch his neck to give Bucky more space to explore, enticing him to lean close and run his nose up on that deliciously taut expanse of skin.

It is a no take-backs territory, sealed by the first touch of Bucky’s lips on Steve’s neck and signed by the approving groan leaving Steve’s mouth. And Bucky wishes he could sear this moment into his brain for eternity, so deep no amount of torture or magic would be able to rob him of the image of Steve rolling onto his back and offering himself without the slightest sign of hesitation. Strong fingers wind into his long hair as Bucky tastes the long line of flesh before him, savoring the unadulterated tang of salt and a hint of sweetness that drive him further into a haze of want.

Their second kiss is deep and as uncoordinated from inexperience and slowly dissipating nerves as the first was, however, neither of them is willing to give up or slow down. It feels like his life depends on unearthing Steve’s very core through his mouth, and with each new stroke of his tongue and suck of his lips, it only gets worse. His mind is being fried with lethal electricity, once again, except this time Bucky is ready to succumb to oblivion if it means he can keep kissing his best friend.

Losing time usually terrifies him into staring obsessively at any form of time measuring device he can get ahold of, counting the seconds for endless minutes until the feeling of absolute helplessness trickles away and leaves him exhausted. This time, it means getting lost in Steve and knowing that if he falls, he won’t be alone. He will not get lost again. Steve anchors him to the present as minutes turn to meaningless sand, and keeps him tethered to reality while Bucky finds his breath.

Steve pulls their foreheads together, simply resting and breathing each other in, while their chests heave in tandem to the staccato beat of their hearts. “You’re still my best friend,” he breathes into Bucky’s mouth, “and always will be.”

The silent promise in those words make Bucky’s lips curl up into a smirk just to hide the relief that washes over him. “Should I stop kissing you then?” he asks, pulling back just enough to be able to look Steve in the eyes.

“You’re still a jerk,” is Steve’s reply, and Bucky knows that he should be quipping back a comeback, but he can only look down at Steve’s hopeful gaze and nip the urge to shy away in the bud by stealing one last kiss.

It’s enough to reassure both of them that what just happened was real –– as if the taste of Steve clinging to his taste buds wasn’t enough on its own ––, and to make them almost forget another failed attempt at reconnecting the past with their present selves. And despite the hiccup, they are unable to stop touching. Playful caresses down a strong arm here, a bit of a pressure to a half-remembered soft spot on a filled out ribcage there bring breathy chuckles and soft sighs, where artist fingers carding through overgrown hair and plush lips laying gentle kisses to stubbled cheeks bring little hums.

Falling asleep isn’t a struggle that night and neither is reorienting himself the next morning, when he opens his eyes to the fan of blond lashes resting against unblemished skin only a hairbreadth away from his face. There is no panic over stepping over carefully etched bounds, only admiration and contentment, and Bucky has to wonder if, maybe, they were secretly holding out for this moment.

He doesn’t feel entrapped in the cage of Steve’s arm and leg that rein him into the wall of muscles that makes up the body worthy of the regal soul residing in Steve’s heart. Yet, he wishes his system would recognize the yearning that is coursing through his heart and match the hardness pressing against his thigh. Even if only for show.

It’s normal, the doctors said on the sole occasion they managed to get their greedy hands on Bucky. They recited trauma, stress, the aftereffect of cryofreeze and the drugs Hydra shot him full of to keep him in peak form, unconcerned by distracting bodily functions. Bucky didn’t care back then, maybe was even relieved a little that he didn’t have to concern himself with the useless reactions of his body. But seven months is a long time, and what once was seen as a blessing is a burden now even if he wouldn’t be using that part of his anatomy for anything specific at the moment.

Huffing an annoyed sigh, he brushes a featherlight kiss across Steve’s cheekbone and slips his own arm around Steve’s back, pulling him closer. Pride fills him at the sight of Steve curling closer to the warmth radiating from his skin with a pleased hum. To be able to sleep so deeply, Steve must feel safe, safer than even two days ago. Bucky wants it to stay there forever, but knows that wishes like that aren’t realistic.

Their sleeping arrangement didn’t exactly stem from romance or even camaraderie, and Bucky knows it. It was caution and fear of waking up one day to a world where his thoughts are replaced by static and his fingers are frosted with ice. The thought makes him try to move closer, his head ducking under Steve’s chin to latch onto the already familiar tasting skin, just to remind himself that what happened the night before wasn’t just a fever dream.

“Mmm… Buck?” Steve murmurs above him, sleep soft and at ease.

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Bucky reassures him, but Steve’s arm tenses anyway, the tremble in Bucky’s heart betraying him.

“It’s okay, Buck,” comes the sweet, heartbreaking consolation, “we don’t have to––”

“You’re an idiot,” Bucky cuts in, lifting his head with a sharp glare. “Stop treating me like I’m going to break.”

Steve blinks up at him, shock and guilt mixing in his wide, blue eyes that have compelled hundreds, maybe thousands of people to strive for a better future even in gray scale and sepia tone. He opens his mouth, the argument on the tip of his tongue ingrained in him from a time where he had nothing but his bravado and ever running mouth.

“I want this,” Bucky says, firmly, before Steve can fully form the words crowding behind his gaze. He cradles the back of that blond head, flesh fingers sinking into ticklish, short strands. “Us,” he adds, more quiet but no less sure.

“I…”

He watches Steve scramble for words, color painting his cheeks and his eyes gaining a new sheen that look suspiciously like tears, before he simply curls his fingers behind Bucky’s neck and pulls him down into a stale tasted perfect kiss. Chapped lips slide against each other, slicked by curious, eager tongues as they chase this new, natural part of each other. Groans reverberate in rushing blood when Bucky pushes closer, but not close enough to reveal his malfunction and scald Steve’s fervor. Instead, he chooses to concentrate on digging his fingers into Steve’s sensitive scalp and pushing his tongue deeper into that sleep warm, hungry mouth.

“Me too,” Steve confesses, breathless in a way no amount of running can leave him, and Bucky can feel his minutely aching lips pull into a wide grin that still pulls uncomfortably on his face.

“Good.”

“Good.”

They stare at each other for a few more seconds, waiting for the other to be the brave one. But talking has never been their forte unless there was a fight to start, so the moment stretches then breaks, and there’s nothing to do but fall head first against Steve’s collarbone and choke on a sound that might turn into a real laugh one day. And Steve echoes the sound, less broken but just as desperate.

Clearly, they are a match made in heaven.

Things don’t change between them magically after that night. They don’t go on cute dates — or any dates at all because people keep mobbing Steve and putting Bucky on edge every time they leave the Tower together — and they definitely don’t post cloyingly sweet pictures on the internet, but their touches become more lingering, and Bucky notes how they always seem to mirror each other’s stance even as the others seem to remain oblivious. They don’t kiss outside their rooms, choosing to keep the real depth of their connection private as it should be. And when Steve goes on a mission with the Avengers three days later, Bucky still stays back and goes to the bookstore like he usually does to keep himself from agonizing over not being trusted with Steve’s safety anymore.

 


	3. Escalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to get out of hand. In more ways than one.

He honestly doesn’t expect anything to have changed since his last visit, and while the sudden influx of people loitering around the store makes him wary, he doesn’t think much of it. It’s not the first time some popular book or another came out with a new sequel. It usually draws a crowd that lasts for a few days before it ebbs and the store becomes quiet once again.

Bucky usually avoids the place those days, but he doesn’t want to be cooped up in their empty apartment with Jarvis and the video feed he plays for Bucky as his only company. So, he pulls the door open and walks in against his better judgment, his eyes immediately seeking Miles’ buzzed head over the milling crowd of young women and quite a few men. Miles is standing behind the coffee counter, talking a mile a minute at a tall, red haired boy in a neon green sleeveless muscle shirt that hangs off his rail thin body like an over-sized bag and barely held-together ripped black jeans that show off most of his legs. His nails are painted light blue and some sparkly pink, which flash in the sunlight when he gestures widely to emphasize the point he’s making.

It’s impossible to hear what they’re saying over the noise all the people mingling around make even with Bucky’s enhanced hearing, but Miles’ frown indicates they might be arguing over the coffee sitting between them on the counter. He keeps to the less crowded areas, his baseball cap pulled low into his face, and does his best to avoid contact with anyone, but he still has to walk by the cash register, which is suspiciously abandoned on both sides. He can see that his table is free, a surprising fact when every other table is taken and there are still people in line waiting for their coffee.

He feels like everyone is watching him, despite no one giving his scruffy, ratty looking guy persona a second glance. He still hides his gloved hands in the front pockets of his hoodie and ducks his neck so his cap hides even more of his face. From the way people are craning their necks toward the entrance whenever the old fashioned bell tinkers above the door, it quickly becomes obvious that the crowd is waiting for someone. Bucky doesn’t remember seeing any kind of sign about a book signing, but the possibility is still enough to marginally calm his nerves and allow him to sink down into his chair and look at the book lying in front of him.

The light blue cover is unassuming, but even if he lived under a rock and hadn’t heard about Game of Thrones, he could figure out that Miles picked some adventure book for him that will involve knights and fighting just by the sword taking up the better part of the page. Personally, Bucky isn’t a fan of fantasy novels with dragons and fearless warriors, but as people keep trickling up to Miles’ counter, he decides to give it a chance.

It’s not an easy read. There are too many names and plot lines even in the first few chapters to concentrate on anything but the words strung together before his eyes. Which might be how he swipes the hat off his head after some time, bothered by the way his scalp feels overheated. Not that taking his cap off is anything new. Usually he doesn’t even wear it inside because it just feels impolite for reasons he blames on a mainly eastern European upbringing that had nothing to do with his own family but their many neighbors according to Steve.

It shouldn’t be a problem, really. His hair is clean and people still don’t expect to find a supposedly dead war hero sitting in a small Queens book store’s coffee corner, reading books provided by a cheeky teenager despite the secrets of Hydra being scattered on the internet and superheroes and super villains popping up around every corner. So understandably, he doesn’t expect anyone to bother him besides maybe Miles finally bringing him one of his new concoctions or America appearing from the sea of people to say hello.

He certainly doesn’t expect someone to tap his shoulder out of nowhere even though he is vaguely aware of whoever sitting at the next table standing up and taking a few steps in his direction. Which is why his head snaps up, fingers tensing around the edge of the pages, ready to use the book as his only weapon if necessary.

Two girls, probably not older than seventeen or eighteen at most, are staring down at him with wide eyes and awkward, sheepish smiles, their faces covered in supposedly artful layers of makeup. Bucky notes the way they are dressed in soft summer dresses with matching peach cardigans thrown over their shoulders. His training picks up the low quality of the material that come from Asian based factories, and is usually made for middle class clothing stores, and the lack of weapons on their person. Except for their phones, which they are clutching in front of their bodies like a resting sword, and dread sinks into Bucky’s stomach.

“Oh God, I feel so stupid!” the girl on the left whispers, her startling green eyes glued to his face even as she grabs the other one’s arm.

Bucky’s gaze darts around her, assessing the quickest way to escape. Snapping the girls’ necks would be the easiest, he knows this even without the cold presence looming in the shadows of his mind. It would take one second with each hand clenched around a slender neck. But even with the girls covering him from the rest of the room, two bodies crumpling to the floor, lifeless, would draw too much attention. Almost as much as punching his way through the picture window would. Pushing them to the ground and running would be more humane, but people would try to stop him, and it would only end in violence.

Steve would be disappointed. And then would burn the world to the ground just to find him.

Again.

That thought brings a bitter smile to his mouth, this one coming much more easily than the happy smiles he has been practicing in the past three days. The girls smile back, misunderstanding the gesture, but it’s enough for Bucky to remind himself he is safe and no one is trying to hurt him. Especially not two teenagers in flowery dresses.   

“Can I help you?” he asks quietly, not letting the smile slip. He lets go of the book and laces his fingers together on the top of the table.

“Sorry for bothering you, we’re just huge fans,” the same girl says with a little shrug, her black hair swaying around her shoulders. It sounds like a rehearsed prompt Bucky should know how to respond to, but he can only stare up at them and nod because it seemed to work just fine the first time.

“Yeah, you’re totally amazing!” the second girl adds before he can come up with anything that won’t give him away instantly, her voice breathy. “And so gorgeous in real life! Not that you’re bad looking in your vids, of course not, because you’re totally perfect––” she cuts herself off, light brown face turning rusty with the intensity of her blush to match her hair. “Anyway, we don’t want to make this weird or anything. Just would you take a selfie with us, like you did with America?”

“It would really make our day.”

“More like my year, but yeah... So, please?”

They seem like innocence and sweetness, but Natalia was sweet and innocent, too, when they used her to keep him in line. He wants to tell the Soldier to shut his fucking paranoid mouth, but talking to himself might look bad and scare away the civilians. And start gossip that would draw suspicion–– and and he really needs to stop thinking.

He widens the frozen smile and, ignoring the Soldier — his conscience, his worries —, nods his head, saying, “Sure.”

He knows it’s a bad idea. It was a bad idea the first time he did it with America, but the way the starstruck girls light up might just make it worth the consequences. He tries not to wince at the way they crowd around him –– and how the red haired one squeezes herself between Bucky’s table and the window without knocking the table over is beyond him –– both of their phones out, showing their faces.

There is a clicking sound, quiet and unobtrusive, then the redhead is cheering above him and waving her hands around in wide gestures as she talks at her friend a mile a minute. One of them shoves her phone in his face, causing Bucky to rear back and barely stop himself from snapping her wrist.

“You like? I know it’s nothing like your pics, but the filter is super cool and the caption has you tagged of course, so please like it when you have the time?” she babbles, his hand shaking so bad that Bucky can barely see the picture taking up the screen in front of him. “Oh sorry,” she laughs nervously, when Bucky grabs her wrist.

The picture is similar to the one America took the two of them the other day. It’s filled with faces stretched wide by smiles that show white teeth and wide eyes that fit the girls while make Bucky look like a deer caught in the headlight of a freight train. There’s a white panel of text under it saying,

**anyathehunter:** Proud winner #1 and #2 (@lauraxclaws) of Catching @Tayte Hanson in #NYC! Look at the pretty! Such a sinnamonroll, OMG!!!!! #bestdayofmylife #hotnessoverload #sinnamonroll #halp #cutiealert

“Looks good,” is all Bucky can say, hoping that the wink he throws in as a diversion tactic is effective enough to distract Anya –– at least he thinks that’s the girl’s name –– from the fact he has no idea what he just read. “Thank you.”

“God, no, thank you!” Anya replies with a shake of her head. She makes some complicated face at her friend, who rolls her eyes but obediently shows him her picture, too.

**lauraxclaws:** This is not creepy or anything. #THSO #Day 3: SUCCESS! And was worth it. Just look at @anyathehunter. Thanks @Tayte Hanson.

The text is slightly more understandable, and for some reason makes him think of Steve. He itches to hear Steve’s voice, to know that he is fine and not bleeding out in the middle of nowhere because his teammates are too inept to watch his six properly, but knows that he will have to do with Jarvis’ updates at least until the Avengers make it back to Stark’s quinjet. Or find some secure safe house to stay if the mission takes longer than a few hours.

It shouldn’t. But it happened before, because Hydra always has something up their sleeve. Last time it was some crazed scientist hell bent on recreating the super soldier serum but only managing to cook up something that turned people into mindless killing machines. The memory of losing himself to the cold emptiness in his mind and waking up in the holding cell Stark built for the Hulk with metallic debris scattered around him on the floor just because he saw Steve get stabbed in his side by one of the victims makes him shudder slightly.

It takes a few blinks and a barely muffled laugh from the black haired girl –– Laura? –– to make him realize he got lost in his head and missed Anya moving back to the other side of the table and everything she has said. “Sorry, your caption just made me think of someone,” he says with a huff of a chuckle he hopes sounds rueful enough.

Anya waves it away, unconcerned, but Laura narrows her eyes. “Oh? I hope only good thoughts.”

“Laura!” Anya snaps, pinching her friend’s arm. “Sorry, Tayte, don’t listen to her. I was just saying thank you for being amazing and nice. And I guess also sorry for… eh… this?”

Bucky follows the line of her index finger with his eyes, then wishes he hadn’t. Standing behind them is a group of people, most of them craning their necks or fiddling with their phones. They seem eager and painfully young, completely unaware of who they are about to face. Their genuine excitement makes Bucky feel guilty for exploiting whatever resemblance he holds to this mysterious star to bury his own existence deeper into obscurity.

At the same time, the crowd makes him think, ‘Who the hell is Tayte Hanson?’.

Something must show on his face despite his best effort to maintain the vapid smile plastered on his face because Anya pats his shoulder and offers him a supposedly encouraging smile. Laura is turned to the group of two young men and one woman standing behind her, the rigid line of her neck suggesting that she’s glaring.

“I know you always say in your interviews that you love to meet your fans, but this is a bit much, I guess?” Anya murmurs, leaning across the table.

She could say it again, Bucky thinks, but still does his best to adjust his expression to one that matches a person who makes declarations like that. The smiling and soft speaking has worked so far, so he turns it up a notch and winks at Anya.

“Don’t worry, I have them on the ropes,” he lies, earning a confused giggle from Anya and a curious look from Laura, who’s apparently finally done with cowing the crowd behind her.

“Good,” Laura huffs, grabbing Anya’s elbow. “Let’s go, Anyenka.”

“You’re horrible, Lulu.” Anya bumps their shoulders together but lets herself being pulled away from Bucky’s table. “Don’t listen to her, Tayte. And thanks again!” she calls over her shoulder before the crowd swallows them up.

After cutting a quick glance towards the coffee counter where Miles is whispering with a newly turned up America, he looks up at the next people standing before him and offers a cheery little ‘Hi’ that grates on his nerves.

“Wow, your eyes are really blue.” The guy who says this instead of greeting wets his glossy red lips with the tip of his tongue, reminding Bucky of the distasteful fake pinups Stark hung up in Steve’s bedroom. He has short purple hair and and almond shaped eyes reminding Bucky of Morita, but he is certainly wearing much more makeup than Morita ever did. His tan seems alien in New York, but things are different than he remembers them.

“God, you’re such a dweeb, Cho,” the only woman in the group says with a laughter, jabbing her tattoo covered elbow into the man’s side. “Don’t mind the nerd, he just pulled his brain through his dick before we left, watching your ‘masterpieces’,” she add with a suggestive lift of her dark brow.

Bucky laughs because it’s obviously what they expect from him and adds a quick ‘Thank you’ with the offer of selfies to prevent further small talk that only amps up his nerves. Fortunately, they don’t try to hold up the line for long, mostly just talking at him in a way that sounds way too intimate for a bookstore in the middle of the day. Not that Bucky knows much about human interaction in the 21st century. The last time Hydra defrosted him for more than a day or two was in 1991 in Siberia.

So he tries to give short, vague answers to questions like “Who are you filming with next?” or “Would you take off your top?” or “When is your new video coming out?” and “Where are you dancing next?”, while he tries to build an image of the man he is impersonating in his head. It is hard with all the strangers touching him in some way. A part of him constantly expects someone to prick him with a needle coated in the awful sedative Hydra used on him whenever a hand strays too close to his neck. But he somehow manages to keep his mind in check despite the slow-spreading numbness in his right hand and the flickering spots in his vision.

The crowd is happy and blind to his struggles like most people usually are. They only care about getting their pictures and chatting at him without really expecting any sensible answer, too busy getting their opinions across. A few of them, mostly women but also a couple of barely legal looking men, tell him how much they loved the chemistry he had on screen with some other people whose names sound oddly fake and interestingly male. And all through this Bucky keeps his teeth bared and saying thank you for something he had no part in.

But it’s not as bad as he imagined. Most of the fans, as they call themselves, are nice and look more nervous than Bucky feels. And many of them seem to realize that they are interrupting his day when they see the book lying forgotten on the table, which only fuels their nerves and Bucky is really not equipped to deal with stammering breakdowns. He idly wonders if back in the day Steve had to go through the same thing wherever he went while he nods at whatever a suspiciously young looking boy is talking about across from him.

They take a picture, then the kid asks for a hug because Tayte, “your videos helped me come out to my parents!” and how does someone say no to that? Bucky has no idea, so he finds himself with an armful of skin and bones that would snap and crumble under his his touch if he wasn’t so careful. The kid goes as far as kissing the corner of his mouth, causing Bucky to freeze up and stare up at the blushing and giggling boy with wide eyes.

“Oops?” the boy says, his grin widening to cheeky. “Thanks, Tayte! You’re the best!” He’s gone before Bucky can collect himself.

The few remaining people waiting to get close to him wear varying expressions of amusement and disapproval, but fortunately none of them try the same thing the kid did. After the last straggler, a sharply dressed black man in his thirties, finally leaves, Bucky sags back into his chair and lets his head drop against his chest while he tries to wrap his head around what just happened. His muscles are all twisted in his back, the pain from the tension niggling in the back of his mind, but it’s nothing compared to what Hydra put him through and it’s not like he could ask Miles or America, both of whom are lurking behind the archway separating the coffee corner from the main area of the store, spying on him really badly, to give him a backrub. And with Steve away, there is nothing to do but bear the discomfort.

Thinking of Steve makes him want to pull his phone out of his pocket and check for updates from Jarvis, no matter how futile it would be. Jarvis will notify him if anything happens, and Steve is a little shit who doesn’t use technology around his teammates, claiming that it’s all beyond his capabilities even though he can spend hours on the drawing tablet in their apartment. And yet, when he checks just to be sure he didn’t miss anything in the chaos there’s a text from Steve sitting in his inbox.

**Stevie**

_About to land. Don’t do anything stupid while I’m away. ;)_

The utter hypocrisy makes Bucky snort and shake his head in disbelief, the already tight muscles in his face straining with the effort to make him smile despite only stopping a few minutes ago. Typing back the reply is as reflexive as breathing no matter how foggy the memory behind the words is.

**Me**

_You took all the stupid with you._

He continues to stare at the lit up sepia toned image set as his background but no new message arrives before the screen turns dark. He considers turning it back on maybe just to reminiscence about a time he can barely recall, but the sound of approaching steps halt his finger on the tiny button on the top of his phone.

He looks up, too tired to prevent his paranoia from rearing its ugly head at the sight of a harried looking man with shorn hair in combat boots, a long sleeved brown shirt, black jeans and a cup of coffee in both of his hands. Bucky’s shoulders instantly straighten and his left hand curls into a fist on his thigh, ready to take on the possible threat. Then he actually looks into the man’s tired brown eyes and sees the way the skin is pinched around them in spite of the wicked grin that curls his cracked but somehow still slightly shiny lips.

The man’s hand trembles as he puts one of the cups down in front of Bucky, saying, “The barista asked me to bring you this.”

Miles is waggling his eyebrows at him when Bucky turns to the coffee counter and mimes drinking then pushing his forefinger into the ring formed by his other hand. It should warn him off from taking a sip, but he hasn’t been Steve Rogers’ best friend for nearly 90 years for nothing. He keeps on staring at Miles as he raises the paper cup to his lips and takes a deep drag then nearly spews it all over the table when the taste of chilli reaches the back of his throat and makes him gag.

The man gasps and reaches for the cup, obviously having had no part in that little shit’s stupid prank. However, before he could reach it, Bucky pulls his arm back and lobs it against Miles’ head, who is too slow to duck and gets a faceful of lukewarm chili and some other horrible spices laced coffee splashing all over him.

“Fuck you, asshole!” Miles yells, frantically wiping the liquid off his face. “See if I give you free cinnamon rolls ever again!”

“A true tragedy,” Bucky scoffs before he focuses his attention back on the openly laughing man across from him. “Sorry for him. I’m almost sure the owner only keeps him out of pity.”

“Don’t sweat it, kids these days are like STDs,” the man says with a dramatic sigh then cracks up. “You can try to get rid of them all you want but they’re resilient little fuckers.”

Watching the man laugh at his own joke should calm Bucky down and ease the tension wound tight inside him, but despite the obvious signs of poor health, Bucky’s overtrained eyes catch the way he is holding himself all relaxed and with his hands in plain sight. The man is dangerous, Bucky has no doubt about that, the only question is whether he is here to cause trouble or just to see an actor like all the others have been.

“Nice throw by the way,” the man adds and offers his shaking hand. “Name is Wade Wilson. A huge fan.”

“Happy to be of service,” Bucky replies and does his best to match the grin flashed at him.

“Oh believe me, you really are,” Wade leers, still holding his hand. “Though I’d’ve gone for Iron Fist as my alias, if I were you.”

“Sounds like a pretentious asshole’s name. Might suit you better.” The retort is automatic and for a second, Bucky is worried he went too far when Wade’s grin drops into open mouthed shock.

They stare at each other for a couple of heartbeats, Bucky’s pulse spiked by the possibility of things turning ugly, then Wade starts laughing, harsh and loud and free of inhibitions, and the spell just breaks.

“And here I came here thinking you were all rainbow Skittles and unicorn shit. Kitten, your claws are lethal,” he says between two gasps. “I need selfies. Nudes would be great too, you know private ones not the Google provided ones, but I’ll be nice and don’t ask you to strip here… Although we could go to the gents’ if you’re up to it.”

His leer is back, but this time Bucky is almost ready for it even if the revelation of Tayte Hanson having naked pictures on the internet makes him pause for a second. Then again, Stark has probably hundreds of them alongside with a video or two if Natalia’s scathing comments are true, so it could be a celebrity thing. And it’s not like Bucky is one for judging others on what they do with their bodies as long as they are willing participants.

“Tempting,” he drawls, “but I’ll have to pass.”

“Aww, I’m heartbroken.” Wade clutches at his chest but his eyes are laughing down at Bucky. His sudden reach into his jean pocket makes Bucky’s eyes narrow and his spine snap straight, but he only pulls out his shockingly pink phone with a white cat head on the back of it. “Now selfie? And then I’m out of your hair. Unless I accidentally go off when I get too close to your hot bod.”

Bucky is about to nod, pretending he didn’t hear the empty, crass flirting, when his phone starts ringing. His hand slaps against his pocket, Wade’s presence fading to the background but not forgotten, and he pulls the device out in a flash, staring at the name glowing on the screen.

JARVIS

“I’m sorry, I have to take this,” he tells Wade, too distracted to sound really apologetic.

“Nah, man, don’t mind me. That coffee headshot totally made my day. And I might just sneak a quicky with you in the background because that ass? Needs to have all the pictures,” is Wade’s answer, accompanied by a lewd wink as Bucky stands up and swipes his thumb over the screen.

‘Thank you,’ he mouths just as the line connects and Jarvis’ posh British accent filters through the line. “Sergeant Barnes, your presence is required at the Tower.”

“I’m on my way,” Bucky says, immediately heading for the door. He waves at Wade’s profile who waves back with his free hand while the other is in the air holding his phone.

“Have fun, Tayte!” he calls after him cheerfully, then adds, “And google yourself when you get the time!”

Bucky doesn’t look back to see if Wade has him all figured out, but it’s a near thing. Dread washes over him like the wave of cryogenic air, but he pushes it down with near practiced force. Even if Wade realized Bucky isn’t Tayte Hanson and shares it on the internet, there is little chance they will ever meet again or the real Hanson will turn up to demand an explanation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween, guys! Thank you for reading this story! This chapter has some Marvel characters you might have recognized if you're an avid comic reader and one you definitely I'm sure. I hope you had fun and if you feel like talking about near century old men in love or about the upcoming Nanowrimo (which I'm writing an original novel for, omg), feel free to write me on [Tumblr](http://queenofthewips.tumblr.com)


	4. Progression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things turn serious and Steve is injured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel overwhelmed by the wonderful comments and all the kudos you guys left. I will reply every comment tomorrow, but I can already tell you that I loved each one of them with all my heart. I hope you will like this chapter as well, although I have to admit it's more serious than the previous ones. I'm [queenofthewips](http://queenofthewips.tumbr.com) on Tumblr too, if you want to join me.

From what he understands of the 21st century, most things happen digitally. Video interviews, tweets, pictures have taken the place of going up to someone and socking them for being an asshole. And it’s not like Bucky impersonated Hanson for any gains besides hiding his real identity, because neither him nor the world is ready to find out that Bucky Barnes is the same mindless killing machine that wrecked D.C. and almost killed Captain America.

He contemplates taking a taxi or the subway back to Manhattan, but crowds are not the best option, especially after the kind of day he had, and getting back to the Tower in rush hour by taxi would take ages. So he sticks to alleyways and runs, pushing the serum in his veins to propel him faster. He immerses himself in the rush of blood in his ears and the familiar flash of his surroundings to avoid thinking of why Jarvis would call him back instead of sending him a text or email or even a goddamned video file of the mission, but it’s not easy to get rid of all the gruesome worst case scenarios his brain so helpfully offers like a poisoned olive branch. The Soldier is silent in his shadowed corner, but Bucky can feel his keen attention, watching out for any possible threats that could appear from rooftops and fire escapes.

It’s both unnerving and reassuring in its menacing way, having a separate entity living in his head and sometimes losing himself to the cold touch of a programming that was able not only take away his agency but also replace him with another person entirely. The scraps of memories that become more and more vivid everyday still can make him gasp for breath through a dark vacuum filled tunnel, but the nineteen month since he regained most of his awareness has taught him to distance himself the bouts of terror at least marginally.

Which is the only reason he can get into the already opening door of the Tower’s private lift without already demanding answers from Jarvis whose ever polite voice grates on his already thin nerves. The ride only takes maybe a minute or two and a screen filled with a paused video sequence is already queued up for him when he steps out of the elevator on the Avengers’ communal floor.

Tony Stark’s battered, oddly aged face is frozen in a wide eyed, open mouthed expression in front of Bucky, but it comes alive not a second later, the sound of raspy panting filling the otherwise quiet room.

“So don’t freak out, Tin Soldier,” he starts, then purses his split lips, wincing at the sudden pain, and sighs, “Your paper ballerina is alive... just a bit singed.”

Don’t freak out.

Bucky doesn’t. He feels frosted over and numb to his core as he stares at Stark try to come up with the easiest way to deliver the news on Steve’s actual state. It’s easy to despise Stark in this moment, hate him for the obvious wariness and caution he shows, afraid to set the Soldier off, as if it ever had a will of its own.

“No need to bring out the big guns, Terminator, your John Connor––” Stark trails off with an awkward cough. “So, he needs your blood. Like a lot of it. And it’s not that bad, really, because he’s alive and woke up once already, but the bleeding isn’t stopping and I doubt even super soldiers can survive… Okay so you get it, right? Blood. Yours. Please, don’t make the Red Scare kill Helen, she’s awesome. Also my video feed is shot and so is my commlink, so good talk, right? Right.” The barely decipherable rambling cuts off the same time the holographic screen dissolves, leaving Bucky alone with the static building in his mind.

Stark’s worry is understandable. As a rule for everyone’s safety, they don’t come near him with needles or restraining straps while Bucky is conscious. Not after he broke a doctor’s arm and destroyed half of the lab he woke up in after his body decided to give up on him only two days after Steve found him in an abandoned garage in Germany. Coming to his senses with his right wrist strapped to a barred bed while a man in a white lab coat was trying to stick a needle in his arm when he finally escaped Hydra’s clutches sent him on a warpath. Later it was blamed on the Soldier and Bucky didn’t correct them.

“ETA?”

“Estimate Time of Arrival is three hours and seven minutes, Sergeant,” Jarvis says, his synthetic voice unaffected. “Doctor Cho and her team are already in the medical center on the 64th floor.”

“Sedatives?”

“Doctor Cho asked me to tell you they are ready whenever you are.”

His steps are languid but tightly controlled as he stalks back into the elevator and lets Jarvis take him to the medical center. Helen Cho is adjusting something on the regenerating cradle when he walks in, but she looks up and offers a tight lipped smile that doesn’t manage to sweep away the guarded look from her eyes. Bucky doesn’t respond, his attention consumed by the raised hospital bed set up next to the cradle. He has to clench his jaw to gather his courage to walk further into the large room, especially when he sees the large IV bags of clear liquid are hanging from the stand beside the bed.

“Sergeant Barnes?”

“I’m fine,” he replies automatically, despite the way his metal hand clenches by his side and liquid ice spreads into his limbs. “Put me under.”

Cho doesn’t look convinced, her face broadcasting her uncertainty like one of those billboards spread out all over Manhattan, but after what feels like an endless minute she nods at one of her assistants. The young woman gives Bucky a distrustful look, dark eyes looking for the Winter Soldier, as she walks over to the bed.

“Lie down, please,” she says, pointing at the dark blue sheet covering the mattress.

Bucky does as he’s told, his legs feeling stiff and his movements jerky. He turns his head to the side, choosing one of the many steel pillars as his anchor, while the assistant clips the heart monitor’s sensor onto his his finger and pushes up the sleeve of his shirt to sterilize the area where the needle is going to be inserted. His jaw is starting to hurt from the tight lock it is under, yet he still allows the assistant to put the mask over his face, the flashback of being muzzled like a rabid dog nearly winding him and kicking his heart into overdrive.

“Sergeant?” Doctor Cho’s voice is unsure and barely registering in Bucky’s mind. They all expect him to go on a rampage any second, he’s sure of it. The tension could be cut in the medical bay, and it irritates Bucky into forcing himself to calm down. He’s doing this for Steve. Steve who needs him. Maybe for the first time in his life, he actually needs Bucky’s help.

“Do it,” he grits out, muffled by the mask.

There is a moment of silence, only disturbed by the quiet beeping of the heart monitor, then the assistant next to him sighs and tells him to count to five. Bucky only reaches two before his world is swallowed by emptiness.

~o~o~o~o~

Coming to is like blinking through thick syrup, his mind filled with tightly knit cotton. The bluish glow of the overhead lights are too low to hurt his eyes, but disorienting enough to leave him desperate for breath while he’s waiting for his bones to thaw out. But there is no tingle under his skin, no pain in his nails he associates with coming out of cryostasis. There is only the frantic beeping coming from somewhere above his head, and a low whirring he is distantly familiar with yet cannot place.

He blinks his eyes, a heroic effort, brows slowly sliding together in a frown. The whirring and beeping blurs together for what feels like a second but when it all falls apart and his bubble of cottoned emptiness bursts he is staring into Helen Cho’s concern etched face.

“Steve?” Is the first word out of his mouth even though it sounds all croaked and barely audible.

“I’m here, Buck,” comes the tired reply from his right, and Bucky’s head makes the move to follow that so well known voice instantly. Except the movement seems to take ages, and by the time he lays his eyes on Steve, partially encased in the regenerating cradle. “I’m fine.”

He really isn’t, Bucky can see this even through the fog in his addled mind. Steve looks so pale, whitewashed by blue light and blood loss, yet his smile is alive if tired. Bucky’s blood is slowly trickling into his body through a thin tube connected to a plastic bag, while the cradle is whirring away matching the sound echoing in Bucky’s head. They are staring at each other, Doctor Cho’s presence above Bucky faded to the background, Steve grinning  a dazed idiot’s lopsided smile while Bucky just looking his fill and swimming in the mud of fading sedatives and hazy relief.

“You just gotta love the future, huh?” Steve says, his tone way too cheerful even as he closes his eyes and doesn’t reopen them. “Still bummed out over the no flying car thing, though…”

Flying cars.

Didn’t someone promised them flying cars once? He doesn’t remember, but it doesn’t deter Steve from keeping that lopsided grin on his face. Then Doctor Cho clears her throat, her hand floating into Bucky’s vision without actually touching him.

“If Captain Rogers keeps reacting well to the treatment, he should be fully healed in a little over three hours.”

“I’m fine, really!”

“Why is he so––?” He couldn’t find the right word for the weird happiness oozing from Steve despite the failed attempt at impatience.

“Cheery?” Bucky nodded, mouth twisting when the movement sent his vision askew. “It’s the shock of instant regeneration. His body is releasing endorphin in heavy doses to make up for the pain it should be experiencing because we could not sedate him without causing more harm than good.”

“Ah…” He isn’t sure he managed to process anything of that speech, but the doctor seems more curious than worried as she talks, and for now it’s enough for Bucky. Steve is humming a little tune under his breath, the sound gentle and lulling, making it hard for Bucky to keep his eyes open.

“Why don’t you try to rest some more, Sergeant Barnes? It will help with the disorientation and any possible headaches,” Cho says quietly, doing something so the beeping above Bucky’s head fades into near silence and Bucky fades away with it.

~o~o~o~o~

There is a body curled around him when he wakes up again and the lights are turned down almost fully, mimicking the setting in their bedroom. Warm gusts of air hit the side of his neck from time to time, and the heat seeping into his covered right ram feels overly familiar. The mattress under him feels strangely familiar, too, as if he isn’t in the med bay anymore–

His eyes snap open, gaze meeting the ceiling of their bedroom. How much time did he lose this time? Did he kill anyone? The questions claw at him, vicious and unforgiving, and he looks around frantically for something that can tell him what happened. However, the room is quiet bar for his own shallow and Steve’s contented breathing.

“Steve?” he whispers, refusing to admit his tone is frightened. His only answer is a muffled hum and a thick arm sneaking around his stomach. “Steve.”

“Sleepin’,” Steve murmurs, the brush of his lips sending a jolt down Bucky’s spine despite the downward spiral he’s experiencing. There is a leg thrown over his thigh, and he can feel it rest dangerously close to his flaccid, unresponsive dick.

“Steve, wake up!” he snaps, metal arm clamping over the thick cords of muscles in Steve’s thigh to prevent him from kicking out.

“Bucky?” Steve sounds disoriented, but he raises his head to look at him properly. “What’s wrong?”

“Why are we in our bedroom?” It’s not the question he wants to ask and Steve must realize this because his arm pulls Bucky closer and he rests their foreheads together.

“We’re in the recovery area in the medical center. Tony had our bed brought up. You were only asleep for a few hours. Nothing happened. You’re fine.” He speaks in short sentences, voice pitched low and soothing, and Bucky can feel the words calm him down, bringing him back from the edge. “You’re fine,” Steve repeats it again and again, until Bucky can almost believe it.

“Thank you.” Leaning up to brush their lips together still doesn’t come naturally, but the touch of chapped skin is getting familiar, and Bucky will die before he allows anyone to take these memories away from him. “Sorry for waking you.”

“Never say sorry for needing me,” Steve replies, his words carving themselves into Bucky’s mouth like an oath, and this time their kiss is deeper, laced with the sourness of medical induced sleep and the need to be as close as possible.

It leaves Bucky yearning for more despite or maybe because of the way their noses still bump together and their teeth clink with an echo of pain neither of them acknowledge beyond little huffs of laughter. They have no idea how to be smooth. Steve because he never took the chance to get better after he woke up from the ice, and Bucky because his memories of pleasure are still locked away somewhere deep in his mind, hidden under piles of horror and pain. It doesn’t stop them from pressing as close as possible, the lines of their bodies melding to the point where Bucky has no idea where he ends and Steve begins.

They stare at each other in the dim light, Steve’s eyes are like gleaming beacons in the night as he pushes his tongue deeper into Bucky’s mouth and presses his hips down––and when did he climb on top of him anyway?––to seek friction that makes them both gasp for air and let their lips break apart. Steve’s mouth, dark and shiny with their shared saliva, is still open and ready to dive back in while the vein in his neck is like a live wire, shocking Bucky’s heart into stuttering and trying to catch up through his fingertips.

“Okay?” Steve asks, his breath leaving his lungs in little gushes of air. The muscles in his left forearm are straining next to Bucky’s head from holding up his weight, while his right hand is carding through Bucky’s hair, savoring the strands as if they were worth more than they actually are.

Their groins are still pressed together, soft flesh aligned through the rough fabric of jeans and combat trousers, and it comes as a comforting surprise to realize neither of them is hard, not even a little bit despite the way Steve keeps rolling his hips. The sensation is muted through the thickness of denim and whatever is Steve’s pants are made from, giving the little movements a more playful and relaxed than erotic feel. It’s almost easy to raise his own hips to meet Steve’s thrusts, to show his best friend that Bucky is still present and fine with the closeness that holds them together.

Still, it is his quiet “Okay” that lights Steve’s face up in a wide, relieved smile, before he leans back down and captures Bucky’s lips in a long, enticing kiss that eventually leaves them in a breathless and bonelessly relaxed heap.

“Isn’t this room monitored by Jarvis?” Bucky asks, eyes tracing the streaks of warm glow dancing in Steve’s hair with every breath he takes.

“Jarvis ’s smart,” Steve murmurs into Bucky’s shirt, and okay, that was a stupid question, even if the knowledge that Jarvis just witnessed something so intimate between them––the previous three days didn’t count because Steve always made sure that Jarvis’ video was turned off––leaves him feeling… exposed in a way he never felt before.

Bucky isn’t sure what to think of that, but he decides not to dwell on it. Surprisingly, he trusts Jarvis’ discretion and even if he didn’t, he knows Steve will always have his back. The thought makes him sigh in contentment. He isn’t tired anymore, his conditioning preventing him from sleeping more than a few hours at a time even with Steve’s warm, comforting body draped across him. Instead, he listens to Steve’s breathing even out like he usually does when sleep abandons him, counting along with the strong, steady thumps of Steve’s infallible heart.

They won’t talk about what happened, at least not like they should. Steve won’t ask him to get his shit together already and Bucky won’t ask Steve to give up his self-appointed heroism for civilian life no matter how much he wants to. No matter how much terror seizes his heart every time Steve goes into battle without him watching his back.

They never talk about that.

What they talk about is Steve’s stupidity and Bucky’s irrational worrying over nothing, going around in circles until Steve is only moments away from shouting yet never lets himself because of his maddening fear of hurting Bucky in anyway. And Bucky just watches, needling him every damn time, as if still hoping that anything would change.

Nothing ever does.

 


	5. Deception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get heated in more ways than one.

Four nights later his eyes snap open in their own bed with Steve’s inhumanly strong fingers around his throat. Steve’s eyes are hovering above him, glassy and worlds away, well-kept nails biting into his flesh as if seeking his jugular, and a large palm is pressing down on his windpipe in the perfect position to cut off his air. Bucky doesn’t try to attack back, no matter how much the coldness in the back of his mind commands him to with his frigid howls.

Two flash-like moves. That is all it would take to reach up and break Steve’s wrist with his nerves cut. But Bucky chooses to reach higher and sinks his own fingers into Steve’s sweat soaked hair, a caress alien enough in whatever hell Steve is stuck in to pull him back into reality well within the limit of The Soldier’s survival skills.

He has a front row seat to watch Steve rear back as if stricken, staring at Bucky then at his hand in horror. His muscles strain under his skin, ready to bolt, but Bucky’s hand snap out and curls around Steve’s forearm before he could run from himself and the nightmare that moulded his hand into a weapon then turned it against a person he holds dear to his heart.

“Don’t you dare,” Steve rasps when Bucky opens his mouth. “Don’t you dare placate me.”

“Why?” It’s almost like someone else is using his vocal chords, leaving Bucky to watch from below the surface of the murky sea in his head. That voice is calm and reasonable. Uncaring of the bruises forming yet already healing on his neck. “You’ve done the same countless times.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Really? How so?” Steve’s jaw is working around the self-hatred that’s ready to spill out and take blame for every crime in the world.

“Bucky––”

“Come here,” the voice orders, the metal plates shifting as Bucky pulls Steve’s hand closer and lays it back around his neck. “Do you trust me?”

“Buck…”

“Do you trust me?” The question is his this time, sharp and demanding, his building anger washing away the unnatural stillness embedded into him in another life.

“Yes,” Steve grits out after glaring down at him fearful and betrayed for endless seconds. “Of course I trust you! It’s me who I––”

“Then trust me to take care of myself!” Suddenly his flesh hand is mirroring Steve’s hold, locked onto fragile skin like a promise. “Don’t make decisions for me. Don’t hold back. Don’t hide.”

“Like you’re not hiding from me?” It’s a valid accusation, and nothing less he expected from Steve when cornered and faced with his fears. “I nearly choked you to death.”

“I can hold my breath for 25 minutes, 10 without any chance of preparation, and it would have taken two moves to snap your wrist,” Bucky replies, matter of fact. Steve’s eyes, narrowed, widen in surprise while he leans closer as if fascinated, neck pressing harder against the line of Bucky’s palm. “You could never choke me to death.”

“That’s not an excuse.” He can feel Steve’s throat move as he swallows heavily, before Steve presses even closer, breath hitching when Bucky’s hold tightens instinctively. What I did––” he gasps, but stops and closes his eyes, anguished.

“Is exactly what I’ve done while drowning in my memories countless times before. It’s a soldier’s instinct,” Bucky says, sliding his hand back onto Steve’s nape and sitting up to pull Steve into a tight hug.

Slowly quieting hot puffs of air dampen the side of his neck where Steve’s face is pressed against his skin, and the last dregs of coldness finally thaw from Bucky’s mind. It feels oddly… empowering to be the one who is talking Steve down from his escalating martyr complex, an expression Bucky learned from Stark during a post-mission argument between him and Steve.

It’s progress.

But Bucky isn’t satisfied. He wants to do something more, to make Steve see how far he has come. Something intimate, something that’s just theirs, something…

A bath.

Blood rushes in his ears at the hazed funhouse reflection of Steve in his pale skinned glory sitting in the middle of a half-rusted bathtub with his knobby knees pulled up to his chin, staring through Bucky with ever-seeing eyes. A different Steve looks up at him through thick sandy lashes, beseeching and suspicious as a long fingered hand flattens over Bucky’s heart. The images blur, and suddenly it’s hard to decide what’s real and what only exists in his imagination.

Steve’s voice is the same as it always has been, deep and warm, tinged with a hint of worry when he says, “Buck?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky lies concentrating on the red-tinted eyes so close to his. “You should take a bath.”

Steve’s hand, halfway up to Bucky’s face, freezes in the air. “A bath,” he repeats.

“Yes.” Bucky closes his fingers over Steve’s hand and puts it back on his chest. “With me.”

Steve’s breath catches, lips hanging open, and his gaze sharpens to absolute focus even as his pupils practically consume the blue of his eyes. Bucky doesn’t get the chance to school his expression into something inviting and fake, laid out bare under the keen attention of his best friend with nowhere to hide. He swallows instinctively but doesn’t look away. He wants this, wants to feel Steve’s naked skin under his fingers, experiencing something his long lost self only ever dreamed of.

Endless seconds slip into minutes before Steve slowly dips his chin in a hesitant nod. He doesn’t ask Bucky if he’s sure, which is already a step in the right direction, he simply gets off the bed and offers his hand for Bucky as a sign of trust and consent.

The tub in their bathroom is nothing like the rust eaten piece of junk that came with their shoebox of an apartment half a century ago. Stark’s borderline obsession for grandioseness shows in everything around them, and the bathtub is no different. It’s a claw-footed white giant with a shiny, gold colored faucet and no showerhead. It’s supposed to look classy, but missed it by a mile and comes across as snobby.

“I knew there was a reason why I keep avoiding looking out the window here,” Steve says with a snort, fingers tightening their hold on Bucky’s hand, making him realize they still haven’t let go of each other.

“You prefer the rust bucket we had back in the day?” Bucky shoots back, offering a smirk that makes Steve’s entire face light up with the force of his grin.

“Look at the legs and tell me you wouldn’t take the rust any day.”

Feeling bold and desperate to chase away any semblance of doubt Steve is trying to hide from him, Bucky pulls his best friend into his arms by their interlaced hands and slides his free hand into Steve’s hair at the back of his neck.

“Maybe it’s you who’s missing the rust,” he says quietly.

“I used to.” Steve swallows heavily, slanting his eyes away, ashamed. “The rust, the pain, the near blindness and the lack of air. I’d have taken all of them if it’d meant I gotta have you back.”

“And now?”

“Not even a thousand gold footed tubs could make me want the rust back.”

Steve seals the oath with a kiss, his arms winding around Bucky’s waist tightly, his tongue a testament to his dedication that leaves Bucky arching his neck and pushing for more. His hands slide under the thin t-shirt Steve put on before getting into bed, gasping at the feel of searing hot skin and steely muscles under his fingertips. Steve hums in answer, mirroring Bucky’s movements and taking them further by rucking up the fabric at his back.

“We should turn on the water,” Steve says, his gravel-like voice scaling down Bucky’s spine. He leans back for a moment to pull Bucky’s shirt over his head, then raises his arms so Bucky can do the same with his.

“Later,” Bucky rumbles back, pushing forward once again to suck deep, supposedly bruising kisses into Steve’s neck.

Their shirts land on the floor, forgotten even before they land as Bucky backs Steve against the floor to ceiling window. He can’t get enough of the man before him, devouring him with kisses that leave both of them in severe need of air. He’s already addicted to Steve’s taste, the salty, yet weirdly sweet flavor that reminds Bucky of the cinnamony apple pie America put down in front of him before the whole nonsense with him impersonating some modern day celebrity started.

He huffs in frustration at the memory, pushing it away in favor of sucking on Steve’s neck some more, admiring the momentary marks that bloom on the pale skin. Licking up the vein, he drinks in the flutter of Steve’s heartbeat and can almost taste the vibrations of his moans. His second line of attack starts at Steve’s chest. His short nails scraping over pebbled nipples, circling the sensitive nerves and drawing sweet gasps from Steve, who blindly grabs Bucky’s hips, long fingers pulling him closer even as he throws his head back to offer more skin for Bucky’s ravenous mouth.

Bucky pulls back a little to admire his handy work and to peer up at Steve, seeing his eyes at half-mast, blue just peeking out like raising night. With a wicked grin Bucky leans back in and bites down on the sharp collarbone laid out just for him. He can’t stop himself from sucking deep bruises into the bone, bruises that has already begun to fade by the time Bucky continues his journey downward to equally mark up Steve’s chest. His sides. His hips. Lower, lower, lower until his lips are brushing the edge of Steve’s boxer briefs, his chin bumping into the arching curve of Steve’s dick.

Bucky’s right hand is shaking terribly as he drags it down Steve’s torso, his own nerves frayed with anticipation. His left, on the other hand, is rock steady when he reaches up, tentative and wary, to brush it against the thinly stretched skin over Steve’s hipbone. Testing the waters. Steve groan is pure wantonness, his pushing closer and it’s enough to make Bucky bolder. He nuzzles his cheek against the hardness, his stubble rasping on the soft cotton, while his metal fingers slowly creep under the fabric, drawing a hiss and a groan from Steve.

Steve’s nails claw the glass behind his back, his body quivering with need and the power it grants Bucky is like the sweetest, darkest drug the underworld can offer. He pulls Steve’s underwear down, watching hungrily as his dark pink cock springs free, a drop of pearly liquid gathering on the tip. It’s mouthwatering and he wants nothing more than get a taste, to wrap his tongue around the hot flesh, almost forgetting his own lack of hardness entirely. And there is nothing to stop him. He parts his lips and lets them hover over the bulbous head just as his lifts his gaze and looks up at Steve through his lashes, earning a reverberating moan and the shaky slide of fingers in his mussed hair.

“You ready, Stevie?” he whispers against Steve’s cock, grinning when it twitches and oozes more precome. “Hmm… I’ll take that as a yes.”

He licks a long stripe up the curved flesh, following the thick vein up the ridge, his focus on the slick prize on the top. The moment he reaches the head, he can think of nothing else, teasing it with the tip of his tongue. He varies his touches; kitten licks, longer swipes, tiny kisses following each other until he can’t wait anymore and just has to dip his tongue into the slit and get more of that salty, almost sweet flavor. But it’s still not enough. So he wraps his lips around the head and sucks it into his mouth, tongue swirling, feasting on the flushed cock.

Grabbing the base with his metal hand just happens without his conscious thought, and for a second he freezes, afraid that his unnaturalness will be too much or Steve. And Steve’s breath hitches right on cue, but instead of stopping him he once again pushes closer, his cock sliding deeper into Bucky’s mouth. He hums in appreciation, the nudge of the tip against his throat constricting and beyond exciting. He hollows his cheeks and strokes his hand up and down to drag more and more of Steve’s precome onto his tongue, greedy for the delicious tanginess.

A sharp, screeching sound makes him stop again and pull back, but then his eyes catch sight on the five long marks on the glass where Steve’s nails were just a minute ago and it’s easy to connect the dots. An appreciative smile stretches Bucky’s lips and Steve blushes even as he tries to glare, but his eyes are too hazed to be effective in any way. Bucky reaches out with his right hand and grabs Steve’s wrist, pulling it towards his head to join the other one in his hair. He raises an eyebrow, issuing a challenge, but his left hand doesn’t stop its stroking and squeezing.

He chuckles when Steve’s head thunks against the window with a deep moan. His fingers flex in Bucky’s hair, pulling at the strands. Bucky dives back in, his lips meeting metal at the base of Steve’s dick before he pulls back. Then sinks back down. He keeps on sucking until Steve’s thighs start quivering and his moans nearly turning into animalistic growls. The dick in his mouth is becoming harder, while his balls are drawing up. Steve, sweet, caring Steve tries to warn Bucky but he doesn’t let up. Instead he sucks his way up when he feels Steve’s dick go rigid and his mouth fills with warm, thick ropes of come. The taste is new and headier than the  foretaste was. It’s purely Steve and makes Bucky feel content. Belong. He runs his hands down Steve’s still shaking thighs. Caressing.

He gives a few parting suckles to Steve’s still hard dick then pulls off entirely. Resting his forehead against Steve’s hipbone, he inhales the musky, earthy smell and swallows thickly. Steve is slowly getting his breath back, his hands idly caressing Bucky’s face. He is so sweet, his eyes brimming with emotion as he slides down the window, leaving a damp smear on the glass, a crude yet weirdly satisfying proof of Bucky’s skills. He cups Bucky’s jaw and pulls him into a long, deep kiss, chasing his own taste on Bucky’s tongue.

Bucky groans in appreciation, pushing closer, close enough to wedge himself between Steve’s parted knees and clutches onto Steve’s wrists to stretch the moment further. To prevent him from trying to return the favor. To keep him from realizing that something is wrong with Bucky.

That his body remains unresponsive and limp.

Ruined.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I loved your reviews and incredibly grateful for the support you guys have shown for this story. Unfortunately or fortunately, I'm in the middle of nanowrimo, so continuing this story will have to wait until December. I hope you understand. Until then feel free to hit me up on Tumblr (I'm queenofthewips) or buddy me on nanowrimo (I'm Harlem P. Jostone).


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